


(yeah i'm an) activator

by voodoochild



Category: Billions (TV), World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alcohol, Bars and Pubs, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Muslim Character, Vignette, Walk Into A Bar, gratuitous hockey references because canadian pride, i'm not sure this has enough pop culture references, new york is kind of its own character b/c billions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: Sami is stuck in a bar with a bunch of hedge funders, which is basically the tenth circle of hell. Wags is a very helpful devil.
Kudos: 4
Collections: A Ficathon Goes Into A Bar





	(yeah i'm an) activator

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Aesop Rock's "Catacomb Kids". Takes place about a month before Summerslam 2018, roughly a week or so before "Elmsley Count' (3.12) in Billions canon. So no Mase Cap yet, and let's just imagine Sami hadn't already gone in for shoulder surgery.
> 
> *Technically* this isn't an AU, Billions gave us the WWE-Axe Cap partnership in canon. Death and Co. is a real speakeasy in NYC that you can go to, but unlike Sami, I truly enjoy their cocktails and atmosphere. Cafe Mogador is also an actual restaurant nearby with amazing Moroccan food, please go and eat your way through their menu.
> 
> Much love to **spine-buster** for checking my hockey-speak (and for being a fellow Sami fan), and to D for the ridiculously last-minute beta job.

If there's a tenth circle of hell - not that he believes in hell, or Jahannam for that matter - it's probably being stuck at the world's most pretentious bar on a mandatory "team-building" night with the hedge fund that helps bankroll the equally evil corporation he works for.

None of his protesting had worked with Vince. Apparently the attendance is mandatory, the drinking is not, Kevin gets to skip because Elodie has a gymnastics thing, and if Sami wants to continue entertaining the delusion that he is a valued member of the roster, he will be at Death and Company in his best suit, ready to schmooze the middle-school children they call traders. And so he is, he puts on his suit and shares an Uber with Sasha and Bayley and does the picture-taking thing with a dozen white guys (and three women, all of which he can sense are capable of killing him in his sleep). 

He does not punch anyone for asking the Generico question, despite severe provocation. He also does not scream at the constant, neverending attempt to serve him drinks, though he is thoroughly sick of telling people he's Muslim. There have only been a couple terrorist jokes, one of which was actually a little bit funny.

After signing a replica Universal title - oh look, it's the closest he's ever going to get to that thing - and taking a photo with a very excitable guy who actually seems to be a fan, he manages to grab a stool at the end of the bar. He tries to attract company, but Becky is deep in conversation with a beautiful woman who looks like she might moonlight as a dominatrix, Jon and Renee are making out in a booth, Seth and Roman have been roped into several bottles of expensive-looking whiskey by a redheaded guy, and Bayley's decided to arm-wrestle the one lady trader while Sasha and Charlotte take bets. Everyone else isn't someone he wants to talk to, much less endure a bar with.

Oh, and the kicker? No phones allowed.

This place is so up its own ass that no one can use a phone after they enter. He had to surrender it at the door like a fucking coat-check, and he's got a little poker-chip thing with a number instead. He can't even scroll Instagram like any other self-respecting social introvert. It's mildly diverting to watch the crowd get progressively drunker and more expressive, but he'd commit a small crime to be able to go back to his hotel room and watch Bob's Burgers in peace.

"Nate, Nate, my man, this is tragic. Where the fuck is this guy's drink?"

The guy is middle-aged, buzz cut hair, someone had given him a ridiculous name. Sami doesn't remember it. He holds up his hands, stopping the short, pierced bartender.

"Nah, dude, I'm fine. I can't drink anyway."

"If you're here, you're one of the high rollers." To his shame, yes, Sami does clear around a million, but most of it goes into savings and the charity. "You can afford a fucking Uber. No DD bullshit tonight!"

He stays calm. "I don't drink for religious reasons. But uh, hey - Nate, was it? Get this guy whatever he wants, he seems to be missing his drink himself."

The bartender starts mixing something that involves three types of clear liquid, fresh herbs he cuts from a little garden-type thing, and a blowtorch. Sami's fascinated despite himself. The guy takes the drink, wordlessly toasts Sami before downing a third of it.

"So wait, what fucking religion says you can't drink? You ain't Mormon or some shit, there's no way. Is it, like, one of those weirdo cults, instead of booze you drink Koolaid?"

Sami sighs, spinning side to side on the stool nervously. "I'm Muslim, it's a rule. One of many, but this is the only applicable one right now."

The guy squints at him, then pulls out a little case. He opens it, and there are several pills and joints inside. "So enjoy yourself another way. I got X, Adderall, molly, and some good old fashioned cannabis. Help yourself, mi drogas es su drogas."

"Uh, that's another rule. Um. Thank you? But really, I'm okay, you don't have to-"

"Bill, what in the shitting fuck do we pay you for?" There's a new guy standing behind who he now knows is Bill, and this guy is much louder and much more animated. His goatee, eyebrows, and suit make him look like he's permanently cosplaying as the Master, and he snatches the case of drugs away from Bill. "You can't remember the one fucking guy we said was absolutely off-limits to all forms of licentiousness and vice? Hard to miss the hair and beard of a hue reminiscent of our most wise and benevolent leader, wouldn't you say?"

"This guy looks like he could play d-line for the Rangers, Wags, you can't blame me for not clocking him as the hippie vegan Bernie-bro we got memo'd to fuck about!"

Sami can't help his retort - forget the millennial jokes, he has to defend his homeland and national pastime.

"That bunch of children? Please, I could take any one of them, especially DeAngelo. Fucking high-sticking racist piece of shit, he's an insult to the franchise Messier built."

Bill looks like he's blue-screened - maybe he thinks vegans don't watch sports? - but the new guy shoves him toward a group of hedgies attempting to do body shots off a scowling Naomi. 

"Go. Babysit. She can probably bench-press half our trading floor and I expect everyone in for opening bell tomorrow, or I will personally string you up by your balls and stuff Kit-Kats in your mouth to be used as a fucking pinata."

That's uh, a metaphor. Wow. While Bill makes himself useful, Master-cosplaying guy accepts a glass of something very expensive and slides onto the stool nearest Sami. 

"So, not a Rangers fan? Where're you from?"

"Montreal. I was going to Habs games before I could walk. You?"

The guy chokes out a laugh around his drink. "Oh, you weren't fucking kidding with your hockey superiority bullshit. Le Club, eh?" His "accent", if you can call it that, is pretty laughable. "Despite this fair city treating me better than JLo does A-Rod, and despite my desire for a meagre sniff of your team's 23 of Lord Stanley's Cups, I remain loyal to the team of my father, the Broad Street Bullies."

"You don't strike me as a Flyers fan. Maybe it's because you still have all your teeth? Also, my mother raised me right, I'm Sami Zayn."

The guy barks out a laugh and shakes his proffered hand. "Good to meet you, Sami Zayn. I'm Mike Wagner - you can call me Wags, literally everyone including my children call me Wags - and I assure you, I am a true Flyers fan. I was sixteen before I found out 'God Bless America' wasn't the national anthem. 'Course I then adopted 'Jungleland' as the true expression of my American identity."

"Ah, the Boss. I've always been more of a Dylan guy, but you can't beat that sax solo."

"Can I ask you something, hockey fan to hockey fan?" Sami nods, and Wags downs another quarter of his drink. "What in the sweet merciful fuck are you doing working for Vinny Mac?"

"Like, in the general sense of why am I a wrestler or why I'm working for Vince in particular? Because I don't know if you know wrestling-"

Wags cracks up. "Kid, I was perfecting my Million Dollar Man cackle before you were born. I know my wrestling. You're good, you always have been, even when you were backflipping off ropes in a luchador mask."

Fuck. Again. 

"That wasn't me." Sami expects the stare, he's been getting it whenever someone referenced Generico all night, but this one is shockingly lucid for how much booze Wags is putting away. "Seriously."

"Okaaaaaay. Point is, you do it for the pure and glorious love of the sport. You have talent coming out your ass. You could make money other places, and you don't strike me as a fellow money-grubbing capitalist. Why, may I reiterate, do you sully yourself with the uberconservative jumped-up flesh peddler Vincent Kennedy McMahon?"

Sami cuts his eyes to Jon and Renee, to Bayley and Charlotte and Sasha, to Naomi and Jimmy and all the rest of his coworkers. He trusts them . . . to a point. Maybe it's the indy schmuck still in him, the one that whispers the same question that Wags asked and is the reason he still has a massive inferiority complex. He doesn't trust anyone (except maybe Kevin), not enough to answer that question where he could be overheard.

"I'm kinda hungry," he says instead. "Know anywhere nearby that is both vegan and carnivore-friendly?"

Wags stares at him again, but this time he quirks a small smile under his pointy moustache. "Grab your Feel the Bern shirt, kid. I assume you like Moroccan?"

Sami scoffs, signaling to the bartender to exchange his poker chip for his phone. 

"I'm Syrian. It'll be like home."

Wags genially waves off everyone giving them shit for bouncing early, a hand on Sami's shoulder steering him out the door and toward Avenue A and Tompkins Square Park. It's a warm night, not too late, but late enough that it's mostly a bar crowd. When they turn down St. Marks Place, he sees a closed Moroccan restaurant, Cafe Mogador. 

"Oh, dude, it's after 11-"

"Hours of operations are for mere mortals." He waves at a chef sitting at a table just inside the door. "Ismail, my friend, I appreciate the favor."

After joking about their respective accents in three languages - Moroccan Arabic is very different from Syrian Arabic, and Quebecois is obviously the bastard child of French while Moroccan French is its long-lost nephew - Ismail refuses to let Sami look at a menu, and says he'll make some eggplant and zucchini tagine with charmoula sauce. Wags apparently has a standing order for the lamb shank. If the incredible plates of mezze that appear precisely three minutes after Ismail leaves are any indication, Sami's going to have a new favorite spot in New York.

"I've never had the balls to ask - what the hell does he put in that green stuff?"

Sami spoons a little of it onto his falafel and takes a bite. Immediately coughs in pleasant surprise and adds more. "Oh, this is schug. Middle Eastern hot sauce. It's a bunch of herbs with olive oil, spice, garlic, and at least four kinds of chiles. Actually, this one has lemon in it too."

"Jesus fuck," Wags swears, pushing the dish across the table. "All yours."

They work their way through the mezze plates, and Sami finally answers Wags' question.

"You wanted to know why I work for Vince." Wags nods, takes a sip from his flask. Sami has no idea what he's drinking, but it smells like it could strip paint at ten feet. "Why do you think? I mean, you talked to Bill about a memo or something about me. You know where I've come from. Why wouldn't I want to make money?"

"Time for me to earn my dinero, huh? Okay, grasshopper, you seem to be under the impression that I'm a money-grubbing trader. No, perish the thought. They are mere parrots, mimicking my sagacity. I am Mister fucking Miyagi, and I'll prove it."

"Educate me," Sami says, crossing his arms and leaning back.

"Hubris. It's not my favorite sin, but I can sniff it out like a K9 unit spots fresh Colombian coke. You think you are the second goddamn coming of Ricky Steamboat-"

"Uh, I'm a heel right now."

Wags twitches a finger at him. "Doesn't matter. You're babyface to your soul. You'll always be a babyface to the audience. We don't want to hate you, especially not when you're so fucking entertaining, and therefore we enjoy your truly annoying preaching in the manner it's meant. So yeah, you could hitch a ride to Jacksonville and fuck around with Khan's little circus - which, as your financial adviser I do not fucking advise, because Vince hides vicious little clauses in his contracts that mean anyone who jumps for any reason will get triple-fucked on licensing and royalties for the next decade. In case you were wondering."

"I couldn't just be waiting out my contract?" It's a thought that's only occurred to him twenty times a week. When he's wrestling one of the yes-men that Vince will never fire, but there's no story to it and no stakes. "I wouldn't be the only one."

"You _care_ , Zayn. It's unmistakable, and it's refreshing. You see the people who came with you tonight? Those are the true artists in your ranks, the ones we want to keep at vulgar cost to ourselves. So we wine you extensively and peel back the curtain on the world of high-stakes investing. It sure as fuck is working on the rest."

Sami shrugs. "But not me."

"No, and that was the subject of Axe's memo. You are un-goddamn-touchable. You answer to a higher God than money, after all."

"Uh, if that's a Muslim joke-"

Wags smirks, moustache twitching. 

"A little, though I was referring to the god of wrestling. You could wrestle in a barn for bus fare, and you have. You know enough that you don't want to go back to that, and so you're willing to compromise a few morals to do so. More importantly, you're a guru to the others, even some of the big names. Don't think it escaped my notice that as soon as you and your hetero lifemate Owens negotiated a higher percentage on your creative control, six others did the same thing."

Fuck. "I didn't know they were going to do it, but there were a few wrestlers who asked me for tips."

"Good. Influence is influence. Now you have some on Vince."

"What've you got against him?" Sami asks, picking up his fork to dig into the freshly-delivered entree course. Holy shit, that's amazing couscous. "He's a hell of a get for your firm, not to mention you now have access to his family and his employees. Multiple billions of dollars flowing in." 

"He doesn't take care of his employees enough." Wags' lip curls in distaste. "Athletes paying for transportation, housing, and their own healthcare? Are we in the fucking Dark Ages? Wrestlers are investments, you gotta keep them in fighting trim. His drug testing is laughable, but as a frequent purveyor of amphetamines, I can't throw stones. Also, I can't fucking stand that jumped-up rhinoceros he calls a Universal champion, fuck's sweet sake."

Sami nearly coughs on his eggplant; a billionaire hedge-funder agreeing with the rank and file employees and talking shit on Lesnar. God, he's been grinding on the WWE treadmill so long that he'd almost given up on some of those ideals. It's honestly only due to his own financial acumen that he isn't broke and in ridiculous amounts of debt, but most of his co-workers aren't so lucky.

"Can only employees on the guest list tonight avail themselves of Axe Capital's advice?"

Wags shrugs. "I wouldn't presume to speak for El Jefe, but yes, most likely. Everyone at the bar was a potential accredited investor."

"You wanna do some actual good, Mike Wagner?"

"Altruism gives me hives." His nose wrinkles, and he takes another swig of the flask, but he doesn't look away from Sami's raised eyebrow. "Why do you think I'd be interested in something with zero returns?"

"You talked about a duty of care. If you can't sell your boss on the warm fuzzies of helping wrestlers feed their families, hit him with this one: A good player plays where the puck is, but a great player plays where the puck is going to be."

"Quoting Gretzky to me while I'm eating lamb more tender than a baby's dimpled ass is really fucking rude, you cheat."

Sami grins. "You want to make money from this partnership? I'll drop two names. John Cena and Dwayne Johnson. Here's another, look at how much Dave Bautista's pulling in these days. If Axe Cap snatches up the next big Hollywood action star, that's a big fucking coup. Personally, I'd be trailing Becky Lynch. I'd bet that she could tap out Ronda. You're lying if you're telling me people who've never seen wrestling in their life wouldn't watch that."

"Fuck me," Wags says, eyes wide. "Mafee told me she was a non-starter, even though Axe already signed her boyfriend Rollins."

"She does have the most highly-functioning bullshit detector I know." Sami thinks it over, thinks maybe it'll be worth the trouble. "Listen, I will get Becky in the room, but you have to give her your best person. Someone with a conscience. Someone who will actually respect her and what she does."

"I can do that. And you? Can we get you in the room?"

"If you handle my investments," Sami says, extending his hand, "then yes. I'll consider buying in."

Wags lets out a cackle of unholy glee. 

"Sami Zayn, you've just won me half a mil. Bobby's going to fucking freak."


End file.
